


Light My Lamp (and I'll be Yours)

by TheMayDay (orphan_account)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aggravating Agravaine, Animal Transformation, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Banter, Bonding, Djinn!Merlin, Enemies(ish) to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magic, Magic Lamp, Not So Evil Uther, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27657365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheMayDay
Summary: Arthur finds a lamp on a campaign with his knights. It's a pretty thing to look at, and he doesn't regret taking it for his own - until it starts talking to him. Before Arthur knows it, he's saddled with the infuriating (and distractingly gorgeous) lamp-spirit Merlin. And, the thing is, Arthur might have come to like Merlin quite a lot more than he should - and, perhaps, in more ways than appropriate as Crown Prince.But as Arthur is thrown headlong into danger, fainting fathers and scheming uncles and murderous sisters around every corner, his bond with Merlin is tested as never before. Sparks fly, Arthur is an idiot in both love and denial, and Arthur's love may just be the thing to save his life in the end.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 168





	Light My Lamp (and I'll be Yours)

**Author's Note:**

> I've really enjoyed writing this terribly niche AU, and I hope you enjoy reading it as well!  
> Just a quick note - I haven't actually done any in-depth research into Arabian culture, just shamelessly filched the genie/djinn aesthetic. So if anyone is offended in any way, please let me know! I shall strive to remedy it as soon as I can :)

1.

Arthur had actually liked the lamp, at first.

It was a small bauble he and his knights had found on one of their campaigns, nestled amongst the derelict remains of a burned-down merchant’s stall, round enough to fit right into Arthur’s palm and comfortingly weighty. The intricate twisting motif of trailing vines and birds-of-prey had reminded him of his mother’s favorite gown, and the decision had been made in that moment.

So, yes, Arthur had liked it enough to keep it – in his room – and maybe occasionally at his bedside, admiring the way candlelight would fall upon the burnished sheen of the lamp. But that was all until the lamp had begun to _talk_ to him.

“Hello?”

A small, tinny voice, like someone calling out to him from the other side of a sheet of steel. “Hello? Anyone there?”

“Argh!” Arthur yelled, sliding halfway off of his bed. His sword was in his hand in an instant. “What sorcery _is_ this?”

“No need to get testy,” said the Voice. “I was just saying hello.”

“Not listening,” Arthur had said, firmly, and stuffed the thing into his closet.

.

Several days without a sound and Arthur had finally calmed far enough to dare to open his closet again. The maids had looked at him strangely when he’d put them under strict orders not to open his wardrobe, not for any sort of emergency, but bowed and curtsied and complied. But after three long days of grueling training, the undersides of his tunic stained with sweat, Arthur was beginning to smell like stale meat and just about desperate enough to brave the strange object again.

Well, it was quiet, wasn’t it? Whatever sorcery that had been upon it must have worn off by now. And he had rather liked the lamp, after all – would be a shame if he ended up having to report it to his father, have it taken away…

Arthur opened the doors.

“Look, all you have to do is rub me for a while-“

“No!”

Arthur jumped back, heart pounding. The lamp, very much to his horror, began to _hop_ towards him – strange, aborted little jumps, clattering and clanging against the floor on the way.

Arthur let out a yell and hacked at it with his sword.

The lamp, very anticlimactically, clattered to a standstill on Arthur’s floor. There was a hole in it now, Arthur saw, more of a really deep dent, really, but it was most certainly irreparably damaged. _Well, the life of a prince,_ he thought, biting back mortification. _One day I’m battling wayward bandits, the next day it’s hopping enchanted lamps_.

Arthur rubbed at his neck, sheepish, and called a maid to clear the mess away.

( _And let everyone know you can start to open my wardrobe again – actually, yes, please, the faster the better – oh, and put these in the laundry, please, will you? Smells like a_ pigsty _–_

 _Ah, yes, that will be all. Thank you. You may go now._ )

.

Arthur is woken by someone prodding angrily at his chest.

“Now look what you’ve done now,” the voice hisses, accompanied by a sharp jab to his torso. “I’m – I’m – _tied_ to you!”

The drowsiness evaporates like mist under sunlight, because Arthur _knows that voice_. He scrambles off of his bed, never mind that he’s in his nightclothes and probably looks absolutely ridiculous, and brandishes the knife he keeps under his pillow at the intruder. “You!”

A figure sits crouched by the head of his bed, now rising to glare at him with hands set on his hips. He looks so – _glossy,_ Arthur thinks, under the pale sheen of the moon: lightly tanned skin the color of cinnamon with milk, pale, billowing trousers, a strange shimmering scarf wound about his neck, glittering, jewel-blue eyes that are shooting him daggers, full with indignation. He runs a hand through a tousle of black curls, flattening some and making the rest stand up from his head at gravity-defying angles. “Yes, _me._ ”

The voice isn’t tinny anymore, clear and curling just the slightest bit with a foreign accent Arthur can’t identify, but he would recognize that voice anywhere. It’s the voice from the lamp. His enchanted – maybe-cursed – probably-destroyed lamp. “Now what even made you try to run a lamp through with your sword anyway? Who even does that?”

“You,” Arthur says, arm trembling a little. “You’re a demon. You – you’ve come to get me.”

The boy – demon – _something_ ’s eyes widen. “Wait, what? Now look-“

“You won’t put me under your spell!” Arthur brandishes his knife threateningly. Yes, that all makes sense now – the way the boy seems to glimmer under the moon, like some glossy stone reflecting light, the way his voice almost seems –

Arthur shakes his head, quickly banking that train of thought. It must have been possessing that lamp, and now Arthur has set it free somehow. He remembers what his father had taught him – _the most evil of creatures take the fairest of forms_ – and grips the hilt of his sword tighter. It’s iron. And it must be cold – right? It’s the middle of the night……

“Look, I’m not trying to be-spell you or anything ridiculous like that– “

“Don’t speak!” Arthur waves his knife again. “I’ll send you back from whence you came, foul beast!”

“Will you just _listen_?”

Glittering strands of gold appear around Arthur’s wrists, snapping tight around them and forcing him to drop his knife, and before long he’s trussed up head-to-toe like some sort of aborted cocoon. The demon-boy strides closer, and Arthur can see now that his chest is heaving slightly, breaths coming fast from exasperation. Arthur forces himself to keep his eyes open. He is a knight of Camelot; he will not face his Doom with closed eyes like a coward.

“You can’t send me back ‘from whence I came’, you dollop-head,” he hisses. “Because you’ve destroyed it. And bound me to you instead.”

Arthur gapes.

“And now I’m stuck with you – a giant _prat,_ may I say – until you _deign to set me free_.” A jab at his chest, a glitter of annoyed blue, blue eyes. Arthur gapes.

What.

“Do you understand?”

2.

No, Arthur doesn’t _understand_ , but why should a demon-boy listen to what Arthur has to say? Arthur tries telling him to go away, but apparently it doesn’t work; the only command the boy seems to be willing to listen to is ‘Go and be free’, which Arthur has no intention of giving, thank you very much. (The boy had seemed pretty angry the other day, hadn’t he? Arthur may not be the smartest pea in the pod, but even he understands that setting loose some kind of spirit-deity-demon that has a grudge against the royal family wouldn’t be considered wise.)

And so Arthur gains one lamp-demon, who faithfully trails Arthur everywhere he goes. Not that he seems to be happy about it, mind. He takes the form of a bird of prey when Arthur has to go amongst other people, sitting proud and vigilant on Arthur’s shoulder, but he takes every single opportunity to reach down and nip and Arthur’s ears with a surprisingly sharp beak.

The knights (traitors, all of them) adore the bird.

“That’s a beautiful bird you have there, sire,” Lancelot comments one day as Arthur passes by, the bird’s sharp talons digging painfully into the meat of his shoulder. Arthur suspects the bird is doing it half on purpose.

“Ah,” Arthur says, trying very hard not to look sour. He’s far too gone now to come out with the truth, and he doesn’t really fancy a death at the pyre unless it’s for something really, truly important. Still, Lancelot isn’t the first knight by far to _compliment_ the dratted thing, and it’s beginning to grate on Arthur’s nerves. “Thank you.”

The bird ruffles the grey feathers on the top of its head and lets out a soft, high-pitched cry that sounds suspiciously like laughing. Arthur pinches its leg when nobody is looking.

.

The lamp-demon boy is sitting in human form on his bed when Arthur returns from a long, grueling dinner with his father.

“I’m Merlin,” he says, without preamble. Arthur blinks.

“What?”

“I’m Merlin. My name.” The boy shrugs. “I figured, since it seems I’m going to be stuck with you for a while – we’d probably better get to know each other a little better.” The tilt of his head is surprisingly bird-like, and although Arthur will never, never acknowledge it, just the slightest bit endearing.

“Wait.” Arthur thinks back to the bird that has been populating his shoulder for the past few days. Bluish-grey feathers, the hawkish face…… “ _That’s_ why you followed me around as a falcon? As in, a Merlin falcon?”

The boy – Merlin – sniffs. “What’s wrong with a Merlin?”

“It’s terrifically heavy, for one,” Arthur grumbles, moving to change into more comfortable clothes. He’d been wary of changing in front of the boy, at first, unwilling to show his back to a potential enemy, but he’s been growing lax nowadays. Also, there remained the fact that the boy had yet to make an actual attempt on his life. “Couldn’t you, I don’t know, have turned into a sparrow or something?”

“A sparrow,” the boy repeats, positively scandalized. “A sparrow. You want me to be a _sparrow._ ”

The look of distaste on the boy’s face is so absurdly comical that Arthur can’t help but laugh. The thing is, he would actually make a good sparrow. Lean, slender limbs, wide, strangely innocent eyes…… and those ears. Yes, those ears. Arthur thinks of the silly tufts of hair he’d seen on some birds and laughs again.

“I should turn you into a shrew one of these days,” The boy grumbles, before vanishing with a soft _pop_.

Arthur calls him Merlin after that.

.

“It’s raining, Princess,” Gwaine points out, fiddling with a strap of his armor. “We might end up doing swimming training instead of, well, _training_. While I for one wouldn’t mind seeing some of you wet-“

Arthur squashes the flare of annoyance at the knight’s characteristic outrageousness. “The skies won’t stop raining just for us,” Arthur says, “and Camelot’s enemies won’t either. And this isn’t even real rain. Now-“

A deafening crack of lightning undermines Arthur’s words. The rain starts pouring down again with a vengeance, sheets of water rippling own to crash onto the cobblestones beneath them. Percival takes a wary step back, away from the rain that threatens to bounce under the awning.

“Sire,” Lancelot says, face unbearably apologetic. “It is raining rather badly……”

Percival doesn’t say anything, but he inches yet another step indoors – the persistent droplets seem to be targeting his giant bulk, the way a wider target attracts more arrows. Leon blinks, seeming to teeter between loyalty and sense.

A soft scree sounds by Arthur’s ear, and he turns to find Merlin the merlin nudging his ear with his beak, eyes wide and entreating. Merlin pecking at him is annoying enough, but this version of the boy is nearly – _unbearable_ , in the purest sense of the word, all elfin, hawkish face and peeping beak and soft, dark eyes. Something dangerously warm curls deep in his stomach and Arthur huffs.

His knights stand about him in a tight semi-circle, and the sight of all these burly men with tentative, pleading eyes is so comical that Arthur has to stifle a snort.

_A week or two, and teaming up against him already?_ He gives Merlin’s talon-feet a good-natured pinch.

“Fine,” he says, “We’re moving indoors today.”

.

“Why did you hate me so much, anyway?”

Arthur opens his mouth, meaning to tell him that he doesn’t quite _like_ him now, either, but realizes that Merlin is right: his (admittedly not so large) dislike is in the past tense, not the present.

“Because,” he says, “Magic is evil.”

The words sound dry and brittle on his tongue and Arthur swallows. Merlin sits up against Arthur’s armchair, all long, lithe lines and glittering eyes and hair and lips, beautiful but also undeniably _magical_.

“How nonsensical,” he says, indignant. “I’ll have you know that I would have done away with you a while back if I were really _Evil_.”

Arthur steps back, aghast. “You could have?”

“No.” Merlin gives him a Look. “Told you we’re bound – I’m bound to you, more like. You won’t have to worry about a knife in the back from me.”

Arthur wants to tell Merlin that he knew that already, that he – he trusts Merlin, strange as that may seem – but the words won’t quite make their way past his lips. Merlin must have gotten the gist of it, though, because the hurt in his eyes softens and he settles back into the chair like a cat.

“So. Magic is Evil.”

“But it is.”

“Who on Earth made you believe such an absurd thing, anyway?”

The hurt is still too raw, barely scabbed over and bleeding with every reminder, and Arthur teeters on the brink, torn. But Merlin’s eyes are deep and dark in the light of the candles, curl of the mouth sympathetic, and Arthur’s decision is made.

They sit side-by-side by the window, and Arthur talks, about the magic that demanded his mother’s life in exchange for his own, the magic that turned his own sister bitter and angry and shaped her into the dark sorceress of the waste-lands she is famous as now. He recalls the sheer unadulterated hate in Morgana’s eyes, as she had raised hands burning with a toxic green flame, laughing with glee as she had watched his people burn.

“Oh,” Merlin whispers, voice hoarse. He blinks, once. “ _Arthur._ ”

Arthur’s pride has caught up with him now, and he blinks back tears that threaten to fall, setting his jaw in a tense, purposeful line.

“That’s the basic facts.” He shrugs, trying very hard to seem nonchalant. “Pretty much the bare bones of it. I-“

“Come here.” Merlin cuts in, spreading his arms. Arthur jerks.

“Don’t you dare try to pity me.”

“I’m not.”

Merlin is all sharp angles and hard bones, pinching against Arthur’s flesh painfully. But his grip on Arthur’s back is firm and reassuring, the searing-hot heat of his body almost unbearable but also exactly what Arthur needs. Arthur takes a deep breath. Merlin smells like hot desert air and spices, dry wood and sand with just a hint of cinnamon.

They stay, for a while.

.

Strange things start happening around Arthur. Little things. Bathwater surprisingly cool for all that it’s the middle of the summer, flowers tucked into the soles ( _soles!_ ) of his boots, sheets that peel back as if in welcome when he makes to lie down on them.

“Go on,” Merlin says, raising an eyebrow. “It’s waiting for you.”

“You’re disturbing me,” Arthur complains. “I can’t very well lie down on my bed when it’s _sentient_.”

“Ah,” Merlin laughs, dancing out of Arthur’s reach, “worried about your weight now, are you? It’s alright, it won’t tell-“

“ _Mer_ lin!”

Arthur ends up chasing Merlin around his chambers until Merlin, still laughing, turns himself into a sparrow-hawk and chirrups cheerfully at Arthur from the windowsill.

Arthur shakes his head and heads to bed. Sleep is sweet when it comes.

3.

And then – Uther falls ill.

It’s a sudden thing, the king keeling over one day in council, then lying, white-faced and motionless, collapsed over the council-table. His limbs loll about like a doll with cut strings, and two knights have to be called over to move Uther to his chambers.

Arthur stares down at his father’s face in disbelief. He looks so peaceful like this, more like a tired old man than the larger-than-life figure he’d seemed to be. His heart is beating, but just barely, and it feels like the fluttering beats of a dying bird as it beats against the frail skin of his wrist.

The doors to Uther’s chambers have been closed and barred, meant to give the prince some privacy in greeting his father, and before long Merlin materializes next to Arthur in a trail of smoke.

“Will he – will he ever –“ Arthur bites his lip, shaking his head. He resolutely doesn’t look at Merlin’s face.

Merlin crouches beside him, long, sure fingers coming to rest on Uther’s forehead. Merlin closes his eyes, leaning slightly forward as if to catch some elusive scent, then he gasps and his eyes snap open. Arthur barely suppresses a flinch. They’re the color of molten gold, bright and burning and most definitely _not human_ , but then Merlin blinks and his eyes are blue and he’s Merlin again.

“Did you-“

“Yes.” Merlin bites his lip. “Arthur, it – I think it’s a curse. His body is healthy, but his soul – it – seems _obscured_ , somehow.”

_A curse_.

Arthur’s pulse begins to beat against his ears, deafeningly loud. A curse. Isn’t it enough that magic took his mother from him, his sister? And now, his father, too-

Arthur remembers how he’d laughed with Merlin, the strange rapport that seems to have sprung up between them, that warm jolt in his gut that sprang up whenever their eyes had met. Shame burns deep in his stomach. He should have remembered. He should have remembered that he can’t trust magic. Not when it’s capable of wresting his father away like this, of turning him into some – living corpse, lying unnaturally still upon pale sheets.

_How can he-_

_How can he be sure that he can trust Merlin, too?_

“Arthur?” Merlin says, tentative, puzzled frown springing up between dark brows. A pang starts somewhere in Arthur’s chest, and he isn’t even sure whom it is for at this point.

He flees.

.

Arthur resolutely locks the halves of Merlin’s lamp into an unused drawer and stops talking to him. He isn’t sure what he ought to say if they do (end up talking, that is), and his emotions are still a tangled mess that sits heavy and nauseous in his chest. So Arthur does what he does best – grits his teeth, pretends nothing is out of the ordinary, and barges forward. (And, also, avoid Merlin at all cost, of course. He isn’t _ready_ for that.)

He encounters several hissing cats whose eyes look surprisingly like Merlin’s, and one or two birds that fly down and peck at his neck when he’s out hunting with his knights. But now that he’s taken over running the kingdom in his father’s stead, he doesn’t have much time to brood over these things, something which he’s exceedingly thankful for. The days whittle by, until brittle leaves begin falling from the trees, and his Uncle arrives from lands far away.

“Oh, how you’ve grown,” he says, not-quite-petting Arthur on the shoulders. “The last time I’d seen you, you were barely higher than my knees!”

He’s everything a courtier of the kingdom should be, dressed splendidly in rich fabrics and colorful velvets, jewels glinting around his neck and fingers. ( _Not_ , Arthur thinks _, quite as impressive as the laughing glimmer of Merlin’s eyes_ , but he banks that line of thought before it can take further shape. _What on Earth has gotten into him?_ ) With slick dark hair combed carefully away from his face, worldly eyes set under thick, drooping brows, he is as reassuringly un-magical as Arthur could hope for.

So Arthur bids him to say.

Agravaine tuts at Uther’s prone form and promptly provides Arthur with his personal physician, a needle-thin scarecrow of a man that keeps rubbing his hands together as if hoping to take flight.

“Nothing much to worry, sire,” he says. His voice grates on Arthur’s nerves like reeds scratching on steel sheets. “It’s been known to happen, from time to time – the King, long may he live, is not a young man. He should awake before the month is out.”

Merlin’s words come back unbidden to him - _I think it’s a curse. His body is healthy, but his soul – it – seems obscured, somehow._

Dratted boy; making things look worse than they actually are- _Ha. Curse_.

As if.

.

Merlin has made himself scarce enough over the past few weeks, so Arthur almost jumps when he returns to his chambers to find Merlin sitting on his bed. The lines of his face are a little harder, cheekbones a little starker, glittering stone-eyes cool and closed off.

“Arthur,” he says, “we have to talk.”

Arthur averts his eyes. “No, we don’t.”

“If you hate the sight of me so much, why don’t you just _let me go?_ ”

The force of Merlin’s irritation is almost a physical thing, a wave of heat that washes through the room and takes the breath from his lungs, and Arthur bites his lip. Truly, he doesn’t know, either. He can’t bear to talk to Merlin, not when every thought of Merlin is shot through with a jumble of _can’t-trust-affection-betrayal-right-wrong-confusion_. He clings to the excuse that he can’t let Merlin go, not when he can’t be sure of what he will do, but deep down he knows that isn’t right either. Merlin may be many things, but he isn’t one to slaughter innocent people without a thought.

Merlin huffs a breath and crosses his arms. The motion draws Arthur’s eyes toward the long lean line of his torso, clothed in a light, loose billowing shirt, and he shakes his head before his thoughts can meander further. “No matter. That isn’t what I was here to talk about anyway.”

“Then what is?”

“Arthur, don’t trust Agravaine.”

Ah.

Merlin had never been one to mince words.

Arthur takes a step back, defensive. “He’s my uncle, Merlin.”

“And he’s the single slimiest human I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.” The way Merlin pronounces the word _human_ highlights just how far he is from it, and a shiver runs down Arthur’s spine. “Family ties notwithstanding.”

Heat rises in Arthur. “Yes. He’s family, and he actually _cares_ about my father.” He clenches his fists. “Maybe you don’t care about him, because of the Purge – maybe you think he’s better off dead, but-“

“Oh, so you only like to listen to honeyed words that make you feel nice, do you?” Blue eyes narrow in contempt. “ _Sire,_ you look so good today. _Sire,_ lie back and do nothing and I’ll make sure everything is nice and dandy. _Sire, trust me and nothing will ever go wrong_.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“No, I think I understood too well.” Merlin hisses disgustedly. “I was a fool to have thought I could force you to see sense.”

“Now look-“

A hiss of smoke, the faintest burn of incense, and Merlin is gone.

Arthur collapses into his chair and pours himself a bottle of wine with shaking hands. A pounding headache starts up in his head; he raises the glass and downs it in one go.

.

Merlin, it seems, is perfectly capable of being petty when the occasion calls for it.

Branches fall on his head whenever he heads out to the forest, suspiciously slippery patches appear on his chamber floor, and his dinner is alternately too hot to stomach or horribly stale. (He doesn’t think the cook would have been negligent enough to send blueish fruit out of her kitchen, especially when it looks disturbingly furry like _that_.)

Arthur is beginning to realize that he’s messed things up rather badly, but he’s still horribly proud, perhaps too proud to bite his lip and simply say _I’m sorry_. Also, the problem of Agravaine remains – he’s pretty much the last family Arthur has, now, and he can’t bring himself to mistrust, to send him away.

One night, Arthur feels a prickle down the back of his neck, almost like a feather-duster run down its length, and he shivers. The unsettling feeling of someone watching him, invisible eyes in the window –

“Merlin?” Arthur calls, tentative. He draws the blankets a little tighter around his body, fingers searching for the dagger he always keeps under his pillow.

There is no answer.

4.

Arthur almost dies ten times over the course of two weeks.

At first it was an ambush, bandits lying in wait for his small hunting party of five knights. That auspicious start was quickly followed by rock-falls, cut saddles, rusted swords, strange slobbering beasts. Arthur returns in one piece every time, miraculously, but he’s worn a little further every time.

Now, lying under the paws of a giant hybrid between a lion and an eagle, slobber dripping down its jaws and sliding off of the links of Arthur’s mail, stench of rotting meat and carrion almost unbearable, Arthur holds his breath and forces his eyes open.

A knight of Camelot never dies a coward’s death.

But, paradoxically, the image that takes over his mind in that exact moment is Merlin – his laughing blue eyes that glint like faceted jewels in the sunlight, his warm cinnamon-milk skin, the lingering touch of his fingers that always leave behind a static tingle like electricity. The hard set of his mouth the last time Arthur had driven him away. Ironic, really; Camelot’s laws wouldn’t hesitate to behead Merlin should his existence be discovered. Not that Arthur thinks that Merlin will go down without a fight.

The monster’s maw widens a little above him.

Then it’s all heat, blistering and fiery, whipping up like a storm all about him. The monster keens in pain and writhes, rolling away. Arthur leaps up, sword in hand – the flames don’t quite touch him, shying away from his body, for all that he can feel their heat upon his face. Sweat beads in his collarbone, and Arthur smells the slightest hint of cinnamon and dry wood, mixed into the sheer electric smell of _heat_.

_Cinnamon and dry wood_.

Arthur knows that smell.

“Merlin?” he whispers, incredulous. And then, as if summoned by his last thoughts, Merlin is striding through the flames like some avenging spirit, eyes ablaze with blue fire, tongues of flame licking at the edges of his clothes. Surprisingly strong fingers grasp his forearm.

“Yes. Me.”

Arthur swallows, numb. “The monster?”

Merlin grimaces in distaste. “Got rid of it.”

“You – followed me. All of this time.”

Merlin bites his lip, eyes narrowing into the annoyed frown Arthur is so well acquainting with.

“Which part,” Merlin bites out, “of _bound_ do you not understand? Of course I did, you prat; unfortunately, you can’t wish me away all that easily.”

“But-“ Arthur is at a loss for words. But he hadn’t seen Merlin, almost at all, these days. He’d figured Merlin must have found himself a nice place to sulk, something, not forced into following him around, invisible. “You – you saved me.”

His voice trembles a little, at the end. He figures Merlin must have caught that, too, because his flinty gaze softens the slightest bit. “I did. Gods know why. I might actually have had a chance at being free were your princely backside to have expired today.”

“You like me too much for that,” Arthur blurts out, then snaps his mouth shut. _Idiot_. He shouldn’t have said that, a pale imitation of the banter they used to share, except the memories of those times are still too fresh on his tongue, and being a gifted warrior means that sometimes, the body moves first without consulting the brain.

Merlin is still for a moment, then another. But then, to Arthur’s utter glee and surprise, he bursts out into laughter, loud and clear.

“You,” he says, “have a head entirely too big for your shoulders.”

His eyes are fondly exasperated, once again that startling blue Arthur has grown to miss, and a weight lifts off of Arthur’s shoulders.

(Arthur doesn’t forget to tell him sorry, though, much later.

Merlin simply gives him a look and ruffles his hair up with magic.

‘Took you long enough,’ he says, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Arthur smiles right back.)

.

The matter of Agravaine continues to rest between them like a heavy rock that no-one is quite ready to acknowledge yet. Strange things continue to happen around Arthur – heavy objects falling off of the mantelpiece when Arthur passes by, Arthur’s honed reflexes the only thing that saves him from a near-certain braining. Food that tastes the slightest bit off and makes him sick the day after, dead animals under his bed.

“Almost like we’ve got a ghost,” Arthur says, after a particularly gruesome dead rabbit turns up from under his pillow. “A really, really angry one.”

Merlin sighs exasperatedly and gives Arthur a pointed look. Arthur has no illusions about what Merlin’s gaze means, but he simply shakes his head and drops his gaze. He – isn’t ready to give up on his only family left. Not without solid, irrefutable proof.

No matter how much Agravaine’s long, measuring gazes have begun to grate on his nerves.

During all this, Uther continues to sleep on.

“It’s been quite some time since the ‘month is out,’” Arthur says, reaching down to press a finger against his father’s pulse. It beats on, slow but steady, but still the king shows no sign of awakening. “Did you not say he would be fine before long?”

“Sire, that-“ Agravaine’s physician stutters, rubbing his hands together like a overexcited shrew. “I can-“

“Conditions may differ from person to person, Arthur,” Agravaine interjects smoothly, swooping in from the doorway. A green stone glints from a pendant at his neck. “No need to worry yet.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow of their own accord. He doesn’t meet Agravaine’s eyes, turning his gaze instead to one of Uther’s strong, calloused hands. “And you are a physician, uncle?”

“No.” Agravaine’s voice is strained but courteous. “But I have lived longer than you, and have seen many more things.”

“I suppose.” The slightest nagging doubt tickles the edges of Arthur’s consciousness, he pushes it viciously down. “I suppose.”

.

That night, Arthur’s dreams wander on strange paths.

He is standing on the plains a little ways out of Camelot, wrapped in a threadbare cloak. Grey fog whips around him and curls about his hands and feet like soup.

‘-Cannot trust!’ a voice, unrecognizable above the whine of the harsh wind, calls out. ‘Be-‘

‘What?’ Arthur cries, clutching at his hip. There is only air where his dagger ought to be. He knows that voice. He knows.

Then it comes to him, and Arthur gasps. ‘Father?’ He begins wading through grass that suddenly grows close and thick, clutching at his boots like so many hungry hands. ‘Father! Where are you?’

‘-Beware-‘ The voice keeps growing further and further, turning into the barest whisper upon the wind. A pause, the relentless hum of wind through grass. ‘My-‘

Then more fog, more wind, silence.

Arthur wakes with his heart pounding so hard he fears it will burst out of his chest.

5.

“Uncle wants me to go on a quest.”

“Oh.” Merlin looks up from where he’d been lounging against Arthur’s bed, absentmindedly blowing smoke rings from his nose. There isn’t a pipe in sight, though, and Arthur blinks – then shakes his head. _Merlin_. “What for?”

“There’ve been reports of people sighting a Griffin.”

“And?”

“It’s eating people.”

Merlin snorts. “Of course it does. That’s what monsters do.”

Arthur glares at him.

“It’s no laughing matter, Merlin.”

Merlin sobers as quickly as he had begun to laugh. “I know. Still, Arthur – any reason why it has to be you, when he probably has the entirety of Camelot’s knights at his disposal? I’ve seen you train, Arthur, and I know you’re halfway decent-“

“Oi!”

“-But even you can’t compare with an entire battalion of knights.”

Arthur bites his lip. “But my knights don’t have _you_.”

“And your uncle doesn’t know that you have me.” Merlin levels Arthur a look. “Does he?”

A cold frission runs down Arthur’s spine. “I haven’t told him.”

Merlin throws his hands up, exasperated. “Of course you haven’t. And no, I’m not going to tell you anymore; I’ve given my warning, and it’s your choice or not to take it. Again, why you? Alone? He wants you to go alone, doesn’t he?”

“I can’t risk the lives of my knights.”

“They’re capable.”

“Not against a magical beast.”

Merlin’s eyes are unreadable under the light of the candles, struck through with highlights of gold from the flames. “You,” he says, his faint accent curling his words into soft, intimate things, “are entirely too noble for your own good.”

“So you’ll-“

“Yes.” Merlin doesn’t even wait for him to finish his words. “Yes, I’ll go, even if you’re a prat who refuses to set me free. Now shut your eyes and get some sleep.”

.

The Griffin, unsurprisingly, isn’t too hard to find. They begin at the nearest reported village and work their way from there, following a bumbling trail of broken branches and upturned mud and the rotten stench of carrion.

They are in the woods, not so far from the citadel itself, when disaster strikes.

Arthur is bent down close to the ground, searching for tracks in a jumble of muddy leaves and stone, _just this much more, just this much more and they’ll be so, so close-_

Then a prickle runs down his back, and he finds himself unable to move.

“Well, well,” a low, feminine voice chuckles. It’s hoarse where it had once been beautiful, grating on the vowels and rolling the ends of the words out like a hiss, cruel and sharp with a bitter edge to it. And Arthur will never forget the sound of that voice.

“Morgana.” Arthur hisses, gritting his teeth. He struggles against his invisible bonds, to no avail; strength is nothing against sorcery.

His sister smiles cruelly, red lips stark against the haggard off-white of her face. Her hair is a bird’s nest mess, tattered black robes cracking and whipping around her starved, skeletal figure. A gesture, and a dozen or so men step out of the undergrowth, bandits even at first glance. One grins and picks at his teeth with his dagger.

A green stone glints off of her bodice, the exact same shade as Agravaine’s pendant, and Arthur feels as if all the air has left his lungs at once.

_No._

_He was his Uncle._

_Family._

“Yes, me.” Morgana’s tone is sing-song, mocking. “Little brother, it’s been a while. Missed me, haven’t you?”

Arthur grinds his teeth and tastes the tang of blood against his tongue. He spits. “Never.”

“Oh, look,” Morgana laughs, high and brittle. “A little while and already you begin to forget your manners. Here – let me teach you.” A twist of her fingers, and Arthur gasps as something tightens around his neck, forcing him to cough and splutter on thin air. “There, better.”

Then there’s a whiff of familiar wood-smoke-cinnamon, a trickle of dry, hot air, like wind off desert sands, and Arthur can breathe again.

 _Merlin_.

 _Yes_ , he thinks, desperately drawing air in through his lungs. He isn’t entirely sure what Merlin is, exactly; but he’s most certainly not human – and humans can’t win against demons, can they?

“Ah, you.” Morgana flicks her wrist, once, and Arthur watches, helpless, as sickly green chains appear around Merlin’s arms. “Long time no see, little spirit. How did you like the lamp I’d gifted you?”

Hope, as quick as it had bubbled up, shatters in Arthur’s chest. That sounds almost like –

“Well enough,” Merlin retorts, voice edged with steel yet languid. “At least you had the good sense to find me a pretty one.”

Like _Morgana_ had been the one to capture him in the first place.

Like Morgana was – is –

Stronger than him.

Arthur should have known. Merlin, with his laughing eyes and soft lilting voice – of course he was hopeless at fighting people with magic. Of course he’d be no match against Morgana, with her wicked laugh and poisonous green flame, her curses and hexes, the crazed light of battle in her eyes. Of course.

Merlin, with his magical bedsheets and spiced cinnamon scent, the soft crinkles that appear around his eyes when he laughs –

Merlin.

Arthur begins to struggle against his bonds, again. _Useless_.

“I see you’ve find your way out, somehow,” Morgana is whispering, stepping almost daintily towards Merlin’s bound figure. “How would you like Banishing instead, this time? You see, little spirit,” a pointed black nail, trailed lightly down Merlin’s chin. “I’ve been _practicing._ ”

“Morgana.” Arthur calls, desperate. “Morgana. You don’t have to do this. You weren’t like this. We don’t have to be enemies-“

“Oh, Arthur,” she replies, smiling without a hint of mirth, “but I do, ever since you watched my sister burn.” A hint of bared teeth. “Did you know she screamed as she burned?”

Arthur’s eyes burn. He hangs his head. “ _Please._ ”

Arthur isn’t embarrassed to admit that he is a proud prince. But now, he realizes, he won’t hesitate to beg for Merlin. Morgana shakes her head.

“How far the great prince has fallen.” Voice mocking, cold like ice on leaves. She raises her hand, and behind her, her band of men shift their grips on their weapons. Arthur watches as it slowly, inexorably, begins to fall.

_Set me free._

The voice, when Arthur hears it, is a shock that jolts down his spine and sets his heart pounding. It’s Merlin’s voice, he realizes. It resonates strangely in his head, and he blinks.

 _Arthur. Set me free. Believe in me_.

Merlin’s eyes, when they meet his, are resolute and clear. Their telltale glimmer are dimmed under the shadow of the trees, but still they bore into him, straight and true. Oh, that dear, brave fool. Arthur doesn’t dare believe Merlin will be able to prevail against a sorceress who has already trapped him once. But, he thinks, one death is enough for today.

 _Run_ , he thinks, as he yells, “I set Merlin free!” Hoping that he’s gotten the words right, somehow, that Merlin will be free to go. To run.

Morgana’s hand falls. The bandits charge.

And a towering wall of fire washes everything away.

Arthur smells dry wood and sand, cinnamon and desert winds, but this time it’s tinged with something _more_ , the clean, curling scent of fire so hot it burns white. Arthur gapes, and turns, to see Merlin smiling at him, sickly green shackles burned clean away. His eyes are a dancing white-gold that matches the flames.

“It’s alright,” he says. “I’ll take care of you now.”




Morgana charges against Merlin, again and again and again.

She fails every time.

Her spells sift into nothingness, like dust dissipating on the wind, her feet sink into quicksand that materializes like mirages under her feet. White-hot flames dance across her path, twisting into a dazzling array of terrifying shapes – dragons with snapping jaws, writhing serpents with venom dripping from their teeth, horses with eagle’s wings and great birds that breathe flame from their jaws.

It’s battle, and Arthur knows that it ought to be gruesome, hard and brutal, but somehow it _isn’t_ – Arthur watches as if in a trance, as his Merlin bends the very air to his will and Morgana collapses upon the floor, spent. Merlin looms over her, almost like a deity out of an old tale, and Arthur’s pulse speeds up despite himself. He knows Merlin, he knows he has no reason whatsoever to be afraid of him, yet -

“ _You,_ ” Morgana hisses. “You deceived me.”

“I did not,” Merlin replies, indignant. “This is how I usually am. That’s what you get from ambushing people in their rest.”

And Merlin is his Merlin, again, that ridiculous boy that gets miffed at the strangest things. Arthur stifles a tired laugh; he’s worn out, wrung like a piece of cloth that’s drifted too far in a storm, and if he starts he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop.

Morgana bites her lip and doesn’t answer. Arthur’s shackles have dissolved somewhere along the fight, and he heads over to the two, now, massaging the blood back into his hands and arms. Pins and needles prickle along their length. Morgana sits straight and defiant upon the charred and melted floor. She looks horrible, Arthur realizes. Dark circles sit under her eyes, tremors wracking what he can see of her fingers.

Arthur’s heart pangs.

She’s still his sister, despite it all, and for all that she’s done – Arthur finds he can’t quite wish her pain. _Would that he could_. Things would be so much easier.

“Kill me,” Morgana says. Cold. Emotionless. But Arthur dares think that, if he listens hard enough, he just might catch the undercurrent of fear underneath that fired-steel voice of hers.

Merlin tilts his head and Arthur, questioning. His eyes are wide and trusting, as if he knows that Arthur will end up doing the right thing no matter what, and Arthur’s heart almost aches with the simple weight of it.

And then he knows what to do.

“No,” he says. “No. You’re coming back to Camelot with us.”

“Us?” Merlin asks, something vulnerable in his eyes. Arthur takes his hand and squeezes it. It’s almost burning-hot, dry like a sun-baked stone, but it’s Merlin. So he doesn’t let go.

“Us,” he confirms. “Together.”

7.

Their return to Camelot passes by like a whirlwind.

There’s a huge commotion at the courtyard when everyone finds out just who Arthur has brought with him, because memory of Morgana’s mad rampage is still fresh in the people’s minds, and Arthur has to dissuade one to many angry nobles with daggers who are determined to carry out justice on their own.

“No,” Arthur says, “We aren’t fighting blood with blood. We’re done with that now.”

And it is.

Merlin scratches some squiggly-looking runes that supposedly cut magic off from people onto the dungeon bars, and then Morgana is escorted in. Agravaine is thrown into the adjoining cell the day after.

Morgana struggles for a bit, but Merlin’s words prove true – not even the tiniest of sparks manage to escape Morgana’s hands.

Arthur lets out a long breath, grudgingly impressed. “How on earth did she get a jump on you, if you were this powerful all along?”

Merlin turns his head, mumbling something under his breath. Arthur knows for a fact that this is what Merlin does when he’s too embarrassed to say something, so he keeps needling Merlin until he turns, exasperation in his eyes. And now Arthur is thinking that it might not have been wise to annoy someone who can turn him to pot roast with a glance –

“Iwascold.”

“Pardon?”

“I was cold.” A fine blush spreads across Merlin’s fine cheekbones, rosy against the cinnamon of his skin. He tucks his hands into the folds of his flowing shirt (turquoise today, flowing arabesques adorning the edges in gold) defensively. Arthur blinks.

“You were cold.”

“Yes.” Merlin huffs. “It’s just so cold here, you know. It was my first time wandering out of my homeland – I still can’t believe how you manage to live here all year long.”

Arthur blinks, his brain still not processing the words. Then his thoughts catch up with him, and he cackles with glee.

“Gods, this is hilarious. The great fire-demon, defeated by the little wee cold-“

Merlin glares at him. “I’ve told you, I’m _not_ a demon, you _dollop-head_!”

“Tomato, Tomahto.” Arthur grins, suddenly feeling inexplicably, childishly full of mirth. He knows he’s being ridiculous; he doesn’t care. “And also- totally not a word.”

Merlin chokes in indignation and turns the tips of his ears blue.

Arthur chases Merlin around the citadel all day (and if anyone questions why the esteemed prince-regent is chasing a falcon about, of all things, they certainly don’t talk about it.

It’s been a trying week, after all. Let the prince have his fun.)

Several days later, Merlin tells Arthur he thinks he can heal his father.

Something suspiciously heavy, almost like a stone, drops in Arthur’s heart. On one hand, he’s ecstatic. It’s his father they’re talking about, after all, and for all that he’s been stern and almost cruel at times – Arthur wants him. Needs his steadfast presence behind his back. He isn’t ready to be king yet, and he’s still a young man who needs his father.

And yet-

If Uther finds out about Merlin-

No. Arthur refuses to think about that. Merlin grabs Arthur’s hand, eyes sympathetic. “I know. Big news, yeah?”

“Why – now?” it’s a dumb question, Arthur knows, but Merlin answers nonetheless.

“Now that you’ve set me free,” a quick, grateful smile, “I can – see clearer. I think I understand what happened now. And also, I’m back to full capacity, which also helps.” Merlin wriggles his fingers, and a wave of heat washes over Arthur’s face as Merlin’s eyes blaze the familiar white-gold and flames dance in their depths. His face grows serious. “Don’t refuse, Arthur,” he says. “I’m not worth it. And I’m physically incapable of dying by fire anyway.”

Arthur resists for a moment, then two, but that’s all he can do before the weight tips and Arthur sighs. “ _Merlin._ ” _I can’t ask this of you, but still I think I shall,_ left unsaid at the end of his words. He feels horrible. Sick.

Still, it would be better if Merlin were to get over this strange sense of duty – yes? Then he can be free, to return to his homeland, wherever that is, to go on and explore the rest of the five kingdoms. Arthur has his lamp. He’ll survive.

Arthur feels that strange prickling at the back of his nape again, almost as if someone is standing in the room with them, watching. Merlin is staring at a spot in the air intently, a faint furrow between his ink-dark brows.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, thoughtful. “I actually think this might turn out better than we might have ever hoped.”

.

A few days later, Arthur’s resolve is sufficiently strengthened, and they head over to Uther’s chambers. Arthur has asked the guards to all leave, today, citing an inane need to ‘be with his father alone’, so Merlin can walk beside him in human form.

“It will be alright,” he says, shrugging. “If things go wrong I can always make him forget.”

Arthur leans a little closer, intrigued. A treacherous spark of hope ignites in his heart. “Can you?”

“Never tried yet.” Merlin tries to shoo him away, feigned annoyance dancing across his eyes. His mouth gives him away, though; the sides of his lips keep twitching up. “I’ve always tended to do better with fire.”

Merlin wriggles his fingers, and flames dance at the tips of them, like some sort of strange, humanoid candelabra. Arthur groans, falling way to easily into the familiar banter.

“ _Mer_ lin! I am not letting you set my father on fire!”

“Ah, shame.” Merlin grins, leaning down towards Uther. His eyes flicker white-gold, the color of his fire, and he rests his hands on either side of Uther’s head. “Be quiet, now. I need to concentrate.”

Arthur holds his breath. Merlin doing magic – serious magic – is always a sight to behold, and he watches silently as a clear, white glow emanates from the tips of Merlin’s fingers, fading slowly into Uther’s skull. The air in the entire room lifts, as though some invisible giant has huffed out a breath, and then it’s sucked in, fast as a whip, into Uther’s prone figure.

Then his eyes snap open, and Merlin is still leaning above him, fingers prodding at his pulse. Arthur’s heart catches in his throat. _No-_

His father does not yell for the guards at once.

“So I was right,” Merlin says, quiet. “You _were_ there.”

Uther doesn’t reply. Arthur grasps Merlin’s arm. “What do you mean?”

“I told you last time that I couldn’t sense his spirit that well,” Merlin says, “and I think – that I was right, back then. His spirit was wandering about the citadel, untethered, unable to make it back into the body. He watched over you.” Uther’s eyes fall upon Arthur, and he feels that familiar prickle down his neck, the feeling of being _watched_.

Arthur gasps. “Oh.”

“Yes.” Merlin tilts his head, considering. He stands slim and straight, and for all that Uther could probably break his neck in a heartbeat, he seems as an equal, a lord in his own right, tousled dark hair haloed in light from the window, shirt and silken trousers billowing dramatically at a sudden breeze from the opening. “How do you feel?”

“Good.” Uther’s reply is curt. But when he looks at Merlin, his gaze isn’t pure murderous rage as it might have once been – it’s long, thoughtful, pondering. “I’ve seen – many things.”

“I suppose you have.” Merlin pads over to Arthur’s side, making for the door. Arthur lingers, torn, wanting to spend some time making sure that _this is real, his father is really back_ – but also wanting to never let Merlin go, to make sure he won’t leave, won’t leave without talking to him first. Merlin merely smiles at him and gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He turns.

“I trust you’ll make the right decision, King Uther,” he says, voice soft.

Arthur leaves his father sitting there by the window, almost as a statue for how still he is, yellow-white light washing his skin out into a hue as pale as parchment.

He’s never looked so – old.

.

Arthur goes to visit Morgana a few days after that. The cells are dark but not dank, torches stuck at regular intervals into the walls casting long shadows across the bars. Morgana greets him with a mocking smile.

“Come to gloat, brother?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur snaps, and Morgana’s eyes widen, taken by surprise. “What?”

“I just wanted to talk.” Arthur wraps his arms around his torso, lowering his body to sit cross-legged on the cold floor. “I’ve been doing-research.”

Morgana’s words had echoed in his head ever since that fateful day he’d let Merlin go, and he’d consulted the archive records as soon as he’d returned to the citadel.

_‘But I do, ever since you watched my sister burn.’ A hint of bared teeth. ‘Did you know she screamed as she burned?’_

Geoffrey of Monmouth had been puzzled as to why on earth the crown prince would wish to consult the tribunal records for the sorcerers – a patchy record, at best – but he’d complied, albeit with a raised brow. Arthur skimmed through the pages until he found the familiar name- _Morgause, daughter of Gorlois, Crime of Sorcery. Burned._

So impersonal, so brief. Arthur tries to remember how Morgana had looked that day but fails. He swallows. “Was – Morgause your sister?”

“Yes.” The twist of Morgana’s mouth is bitter, cold.

“Why, in the gods’ names, did you not _tell_ me?” Arthur cries, exasperated. “Admittedly, I would’ve been a little surprised, because I’d always thought we were full-blooded siblings, but still – Morgana, we’re _family_. I would have at least tried to help.”

“ _Uther_ was family.” Morgana’s expression is one of utter distaste. “And yet he did not even flinch.”

“You know,” Arthur says, voice soft, because he’s learned so much, has come so far from that princeling who had hung off of his father’s every word- “that our – my – father can’t always be trusted when it comes to that particular issue.”

Morgana draws back, an interested gleam in her eyes.

“You do not share his views.” Incredulous. Arthur grins; he remembers, with fond melancholy, how much he’d enjoyed riling Morgana up. How much he’d loved proving her wrong.

As he does now.

“I don’t.” He shrugs. “I thought Merlin was pretty good proof of that.”

“Ah, yes, your little flame-demon. I’d never thought to see one of the _djinni_ bow to the prince of Camelot’s will.”

“ _Djinn_?” Arthur rolls the unfamiliar word on his tongue. It reminds him of Merlin’s accent, flowing, lyrical, barely there but unmistakable. Merlin. A surge of affection warms his chest. “What is that?”

“A power, perhaps, to make Kingdoms bow at your feet.” Morgana doesn’t elaborate further. “How ironic. He seemed besotted with you.”

Arthur almost leaps to his feet, irked. “He isn’t!” _For all that Arthur wishes him to be_. Morgana raises a brow.

“Want to bet, little brother?”

Arthur groans. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe.” Morgana leans back against the wall of her cell, chains clinking. Arthur is suddenly struck by how far they’ve come from little toddles playing knight and princess in these very halls, sneaking stealthily under Uther’s stern gaze. So much new distance between them. So much death and carnage. But, in that moment, Arthur thinks – _maybe they’re not that hopeless after all_.

“Take good care of him,” Morgana says by way of a parting. “He’s way too good for you.”

And, though Arthur will never admit it out loud-

He’s afraid he might actually agree with that.

8.

Merlin is increasingly often away on clandestine meetings with Uther, and Arthur is nervous.

He doesn’t think it likely, but – what if his father is plotting for ways to kill Merlin? Or – harm him? What if he’s gathering intelligence, or something, and Merlin – the soft-hearted fool – is just playing along with it?

The fact that he is (apparently) an immensely powerful fire-spirit aside, Arthur thinks Merlin is just about as gullible as a fresh baby lamb. He can’t be trusted to keep himself _safe_. And that’s what Arthur is here for.

But Merlin refuses to confide in him, eyes sparkling with now-familiar mirth, and simply gives him an enigmatic smile.

“Wait and see,” he says, voice breathy with joy. “I think you’ll like it.”

Arthur, to be honest, wants to run out and hit something very hard with his sword. He’s a man of action, a warrior, and this inaction, this waiting, wears upon him like nothing else. But Merlin’s asked him to, and so he waits.

And then Uther goes ahead and legalizes magic.

Struck dumb, almost as if in a haze, as the people of Camelot cheer and whoop and throw paper flowers of every imaginable shade and color high into the air, Arthur watches it all unfold from his seat at the castle balcony. So much joy, so much celebration, and yet –

One person points, another stares, and soon Arthur feels the heavy weight of a hundred gazes trained on him.

“Told you you’d like it,” a low, clear voice speaks by his ear, and Arthur jumps.

“Merlin!”

The boy is majestic today, bedecked in dazzling shades of turquoise and midnight and cerulean, golden chains hanging from his neck and wrists, bells jangling at his ankles. He positively glows in the sunlight, like fire given form _(and perhaps he really is, Arthur thinks, drunk on the cheers, drunk on Merlin, a flame immortalized just to take his breath away at this precise moment-)_ and Arthur realizes that this is the first time he’s seen Merlin under the open sun. It’s almost surreal.

No more hiding in his chambers. No more of Merlin being forced to turn himself into a bird whenever they had to walk among others.

No more denial, no more hurt.

The world narrows to just him and Merlin, and Merlin’s red, red lips, and Arthur watches with bated breath as the tips curve upward in a wide, infectious smile.

“Kept me waiting long enough,” Merlin whispers, fond.

And then their lips are crashing, biting teeth and burning heat and Merlin’s heady scent of cinnamon and dry wood and desert air, Arthur’s hand coming up to clench helplessly at the front of Merlin’s shirt.

And the world just isn’t so important anymore.

.

_ Fin. _

A Short Bonus:

_In which Gwaine is scandalized by the fact that Merlin was (apparently) Arthur_ _’s pet falcon._

“You’re telling me you were Arthur’s pet bird.”

“That’s the gist of it, yeah.”

“I cannot _believe_ – you let me _pet_ you!”

“ _Excuse you_. There’s nothing wrong with being affectionate to animals.”

“Yes, I pet _animals_.”

“Pardon?”

“I pet animals. _Humans_ I sweep off their feet with my swashbuckling charm.”

“So you’re angry you weren’t able to – _swashbuckle_ about me.”

A sniff. “That’s the gist of it, yes. Tell me, do I get another chance? It’s absolutely dreadful, this huge blot in my illustrious career…”

A fond laugh. “Gwaine, stop. I know you’re being ridiculous on purpose- and I’m already taken, you know that.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve heard some rumors. About your private _poetry_ lessons, for one-“

“ _Gwaine!_ ”

.

**The End.**

For real.

:)


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